The Tale of the Shillelagh O' Doom
by Nancy Kaminski
Summary: Why does Nick keep a stake in his living room? Here's one explanation.


Kyer en Ysh inquired whether or not anyone had written a fanfic explaining  
the existence of the Shillelagh o' Doom that Nick oh-so-conveniently had in  
his living room:  
  
IMHO, I think that thing is too unwieldy to have been kept for a weapon. I  
lean toward it having been a cherished keepsake from somebody or event in  
his past. That would have made his handing it to LaCroix a possibly far  
more poignant gesture. (Not that Last Knight *wasn't a dream, just a  
dream,  
ya know! g)  
  
Has anybody written or seen a fanfic with the above scenario?  
Maybe someone who writes serious-bent stuff can do so?  
  
Alas, I felt compelled to write an explanation, but it isn't the serious,  
poignant tale Kyer was thinking of. Instead, I present to you all for your  
amusement or disgust...  
  
==================================  
The Tale of the Shillelagh o' Doom  
A Sort of Explanation in One Part  
by Nancy Kaminski  
(c) September 1999  
==================================  
  
"I'll be down in a minute!" Nick's voice floated down the stairs to  
the living room.  
  
"Geesh!" Natalie said to herself. "And they talk about women taking  
forever to get ready to go out!" She suddenly had a mental picture of  
Nick in his skivvies standing in front of his closet trying to decide  
which black suit to wear. She snickered quietly to herself and  
wondered if there was a leisure suit tucked away in the back of the  
closet somewhere---after all, Nick seemed to hold on to the darnedest  
things. Nick in a powder-blue leisure suit... Natalie mentally added  
the open-collared nylon shirt, the gold chain, the white belt, and the  
platform shoes. Now *there* was an interesting picture, she grinned  
to herself. Disco Nick...  
  
Natalie wandered aimlessly around the loft while she waited for her  
tardy date, idly examining the amazing assortment of knickknackery  
that dotted every flat surface in the room. Nick had invited her to  
see the Monet exhibit at the museum with him, and she had eagerly  
accepted. Not only because she really liked Monet, but because she had  
the sneaking suspicion that the French artist was yet another one of  
Nick's many acquaintances in the past, and that she might get to hear  
some very interesting reminiscences if she asked him nicely.  
  
She paused to consider the gothic horror that was Nick's mantelpiece.  
Where on earth had he acquired that monstrosity, she wondered. It was  
almost a parody of the kind of furniture a vampire should possess; had  
Nick bought it as some sort of sly joke only he would get? She  
wouldn't put it past him or his sometimes bizarre sense of humor.  
  
Something new next to the mantel caught her eye, and she went to  
examine it. It was an elaborately carved hardwood walking stick about  
four feet long, blackened and smooth with age, with a wicked point at  
one end and a knob at the other. She picked it up and looked at it  
bemusedly.  
  
If she didn't know any better, she'd think it was a do-it-yourself  
vampire destruction kit, and the main ingredient for Nick-on-a-Stick.  
  
It was, undisputedly, a stake.  
  
"Hi, Nat!" Nick's voice sounded right behind her left ear.  
  
"Eek!" She started and swung around, the stake swinging too, to point  
at Nick's middle.  
  
Nick neatly jumped backwards about six feet. "Um, Nat, want to put  
that down?" he asked cautiously.  
  
"Oh!" She hurriedly put the stake back where she had found it. "Sorry,"  
she apologized for her faux pas. "I didn't mean to point a loaded  
stick at you." She looked at him quizzically and asked the obvious  
question. "Nick, why do you have a stake in your living room? Isn't  
that just the teensiest bit odd---for a vampire, I mean?" She raised  
an eyebrow.  
  
"It's not a stake, it's a shillelagh," he replied with dignity. Then  
he grinned and added, "Or, as someone I know once referred to it, 'The  
Shillelagh o' Doom.' " He invested the phrase with a rich Irish  
brogue.  
  
"Would that be Lacroix?" Nat asked curiously.  
  
"Heavens, no. He doesn't condescend to do dialects. He called it 'that  
pathetic example of barbaric Celtic folk art.' Then he lectured me on  
the idiocy of keeping dangerous toys in public areas."  
  
"Understandable, considering what you did to him a few years ago," Nat  
commented dryly.  
  
"Good point---if you'll pardon the pun."  
  
Natalie groaned. "You still haven't told me why you have a Shillelagh  
o' Doom in your living room."  
  
"It's a souvenir, actually. I came across it in the storeroom the  
other day." He shrugged. "I just wanted to have it out for a while."  
  
Nat pursued the subject. "A souvenir of what?"  
  
Nick put on his coat and bowed her towards the elevator. "Shall we go?  
I'll tell you all about how I acquired the Shillelagh o' Doom in the  
car on the way to the museum."  
  
She smiled and buttoned her coat. "It's a deal."  
  
====================  
Flashback:  
The village of Kilquiggin in the Wicklow Mountains  
Ireland, 1770  
====================  
  
"God-cursed, thievin' bastards!" The voice sounded above the general  
din of the smoky little inn. "That's two of my best ewes stolen in the  
last week!" The owner of the voice, a burly, redfaced farmer in his  
fifties, lifted his mug of ale and downed most of it in one swallow.  
He slammed the mug down on the plank table and looked around  
belligerently. "And do ye think I can stop it? No! Damned heathen  
English," he muttered darkly, referring no doubt to the local  
governor. "He's probably behind it all, and laughin' up his sleeve the  
whole time." The string of curses that followed sounded all the more  
lurid for being in Gaelic.  
  
The farmer saw that Nick was watching him from his corner seat and  
growled, "What are ye lookin' at, eh?" He no doubt took Nick for an  
Englishman himself, and was surprised when Nick answered him in  
Gaelic.  
  
"I'm just interested in your problem," Nick said mildly. "Losing some  
of your animals, are you?" He rose from his seat where he had been  
observing the patrons of the busy public house and went over to the  
farmer's table, pulled up a chair, and ordered him another vast mug of  
ale to lubricate the conversation.  
  
Mollified, the farmer swallowed a mouthful of ale, belched, and said,  
"Aye. It's been the last month I've been having problems. Six of my  
ewes and one ram, all disappeared without a trace."  
  
"Wolves?" asked Nick.  
  
The farmer snorted. "If it's wolves, they're damned tidy beasts. Not a  
drop of blood nor hank of wool is to be found of the missing animals.  
Someone must be running them off." He then voiced his opinion in vivid  
detail of the ancestry of anyone daring to steal his livestock while  
Nick listened appreciatively to the inventive descriptions.  
  
Nick toyed with his own untouched ale. "I might be able to help you."  
  
The farmer looked at him sharply, the bleary, ale-soaked eyes suddenly  
clear. "Aye? And how would you propose to do that?" he asked  
suspiciously.  
  
"I can keep an eye on them for a while, and perhaps catch your thief."  
At the farmer's disbelieving stare, he added, "I'm used to staying  
awake at night, and I'm at loose ends right now." What he didn't say  
was that this offered an opportunity to avoid his sire, who was, as  
always, irate at him.  
  
Nick had ended up in this remote part of Ireland in his effort to put  
some distance between himself and Lacroix, and he was frankly bored.  
But he still needed some time to himself and he was certain Lacroix  
would not care to track him down in a muddy, windswept Irish sheep  
pasture on some godforsaken mountaintop---the ancient liked his  
comfort far too much. This would give them both some more breathing  
room before the next conflict, and provide some entertainment for  
himself at the same time.  
  
The farmer eyed Nick's fine woolen coat and breeches. "You? A  
sheepherder? A bit below your station, isn't it, your lordship?  
What'll you be wanting in return?" The farmer's distrust was evident.  
  
Nick waved a dismissive hand. "Just a dark room in which to sleep the  
day away. Nothing more."  
  
The farmer was still dubious. "You're not on the run from the law now,  
are ye?"  
  
Nick gave him his most disarming smile. "Not at all. Just a traveler  
with time on his hands."  
  
"Hmpf." The farmer considered the strange proposition a minute, then  
came to a decision. "God only knows my own hired man hasn't been  
able to help." He stuck out his hand. "John O'Malley. You're on."  
  
Nick shook the proffered hand. "Nicholas Scanlon. Shall we go?"  
  
*****  
  
Natalie laughed. "A sheepherder? That's one career I never pictured  
you in."  
  
"It was a temp job, not a career move," Nick replied, shooting her a  
sideways glance and grinning as he maneuvered the Caddy through the  
downtown traffic. "Good hours, easy work, plenty of fresh air..."  
  
"Lots of scintillating company?" Nat asked innocently.  
  
"Never make sheep jokes to a sheepherder," Nick said. "We're sensitive  
that way."  
  
"I'll remember that for future reference. So, did you catch the sheep  
thief? And where does the shillelagh come into it?"  
  
"We'll get to that soon. Allow me to continue..."  
  
*****  
  
Nick and John O'Malley trudged up the muddy, moonlit track towards the  
sheep meadow, two dogs lolloping ahead of them.  
  
"Didn't the dogs sound an alarm?" Nick asked.  
  
"Not a one. That's another reason I think it must be a thief, and a  
local one at that---the dogs know him, and let him be. Useless  
creatures!" He threw a dark look at the nearest dog, who wagged his  
tail apologetically and grinned a doggy grin.  
  
Presently they came to the meadow, a large field of thin grass and  
gorse bushes surrounded by a rough wooden fence. O'Malley kicked a  
fence post. "Here we are, Mr. Scanlon. Sixty sheep. I'll be letting  
you see to them, now." He looked again at his unlikely employee. "Are  
you sure you don't need anything more? Just that pack of yours?"  
  
Nick hefted his valise. "Everything I need is in here."  
  
The farmer grunted. "For a dandy, you travel light." He thrust his  
walking stick into Nick's hands. "Here, take this. I won't be havin'  
them say I left an unarmed man up here alone."  
  
Nick eyed the walking stick dubiously. It was a lethal-looking,  
fearsome thing, at least to a vampire---the bottom end had been  
sharpened to a wicked point. The top end was a hefty cudgel, suitable  
for braining anyone trying to abscond with a sheep. "I really don't  
think..." he started.  
  
O'Malley interrupted him. "Keep it, man. We've a rough lot hereabouts,  
and if it's one of them that's stealing my sheep, well, you'll be  
needin' more than your fists to stop him."  
  
Nick acquiesced. "If you insist."  
  
"That I do." He pointed into the gloom. "You'll find a wee stone hut  
at the far end of the meadow. Nothing fancy, but it's snug, and  
there's a lantern and a bed. You know where I am, just a mile down the  
valley." He turned to go, then said, "Good luck, lad," and went off  
into the night, shaking his head at the strangeness of the moneyed  
class..  
  
Nick looked at the two dogs, who were eyeing him expectantly. "Don't  
look at me, boys, go do your job." He shooed them towards the flock of  
sheep and went to investigate his temporary home.  
  
This proved to be just as the farmer had described, a "wee stone  
hut"---more of a shed, really, meant to shelter a shepherd during  
lambing season. Inside Nick found a pallet stuffed with straw, a ratty  
woolen blanket, an oil lantern, and a wash basin. The door seemed to  
shut well enough to keep out the light of day, and there were no  
windows. Perfect. He had slept in much worse places. And he had  
noticed a small herd of cattle nearby that would serve nicely as  
dinner. They wouldn't mind losing a pint or two of blood now and then.  
  
Putting down his valise, Nick ambled out to look at his charges. They  
were dozing on the hillside, the dogs and a few older ewes on guard  
duty. All looked peaceful. Aside from a few muted baas and wary  
glances, the sheep ignored him.  
  
Nick sat down in the soft grass, his back to a convenient boulder, and  
pulled a well-worn copy of "Gulliver's Travels" from his pocket.  
Keeping an ear tuned to the sounds of the night, he made himself  
comfortable and settled in for guard duty. The June night was soft and  
warm, and Nick found it very pleasant duty indeed.  
  
His first two nights passed uneventfully. O'Malley had come up to the  
meadow once to check on him and had gone away reassured that his  
unlikely employee actually seemed to be content and able to perform  
his duties adequately.  
  
On the third night, Nick was doing one of his periodic fly-arounds of  
the area, listening carefully to the noises of the night. He felt  
rather foolish carrying the shillelagh with him while flying, but he  
realized it would probably be better to be able to brandish a  
thoroughly mortal weapon if he came upon a mortal thief.  
  
He had found several deer in a nearby spinney and a hedgehog pottering  
down the lane, but nothing else. Then he felt something...  
  
*****  
  
Natalie said dramatically in a deep voice, "Luke, there is a  
disturbance in the Force!"  
  
"Hey, who's telling this story? May I continue?" Nick asked, a hurt  
look on his face.  
  
Natalie waved her hand. "Please do. I just couldn't resist the  
moment."  
  
Nick cleared his throat. "As I was saying..."  
  
*****  
  
It was the unmistakable sense of another vampire in the area, but at  
the same time it was somehow different. It was like listening to an  
out-of-tune piano and it set his teeth on edge.  
  
Doing his utmost to block his own presence from the intruder, Nick  
extended his senses to try to pinpoint the source of the feeling.  
There... He landed and flitted silently through the thin cover of  
trees. He could see a hunched figure carrying something...  
  
He stepped out of the shadows and raised the shillelagh. "You---stop  
right there. And put down that sheep." He snarled and showed his fangs  
for effect.  
  
Startled, the figure halted. Glowing eyes looked up at Nick from a  
height of about four and half feet. The rest of the figure was  
obscured by the body of a stupefied sheep clutched in its arms.  
Reluctantly, the arms released their burden and the sheep dropped to  
the ground with a thud.  
  
The dazed sheep lay still for a moment, then clambered to its feet. It  
looked around in confusion, let out a bewildered "baa," then shook  
itself and trotted unsteadily back to its fellows. Nick and his  
prisoner, still at shillelagh-point, watched it go. Then Nick returned  
to the business at hand and examined his catch.  
  
The figure was revealed to be an elderly-looking, tattered man dressed  
in equally elderly clothes. He was no taller than the middle of Nick's  
chest. Nick would have taken him for harmless excepting that this  
particular old man sported glowing eyes and fangs, and stole sheep.  
  
"Who are you?" he demanded, gesturing with the shillelagh for  
emphasis. He repeated the question in Gaelic.  
  
"Someone who's been cheated out of his dinner, that's who," the man  
returned irately. He planted his fists on his hips and glared upward.  
"And who, may I ask, are you?"  
  
"I asked first," Nick said, and prodded the old man with the  
shillelagh point.  
  
The man sighed and delicately pushed the shillelagh aside with a  
fingertip. "I'm Patrick, and these are my hunting grounds. Go find  
your own sheep, boy."  
  
Now Nick knew why this little vampire felt different---he was a  
carouche! They were so rare he had met no more than half a dozen or so  
in his entire five hundred and fifty years. He lowered the stake and  
said, "I'm Nicolas de Brabant, and have a care, carouche. I'm  
considerably older than you are."  
  
Patrick bristled. "What's that you called me? I'm a proper demon, I  
am. And no damned Frog, neither!"  
  
Nick stared at the little man in disbelief, then burst out laughing.  
He made a sardonic bow. "Well met, demon Patrick. I'm no damned Frog  
either, by the way, being Brabantish-born, but that's neither here nor  
there. I'm afraid I must insist you move on. You've been indiscreet,  
and people are beginning to notice. Didn't your sire instruct you  
properly?"  
  
The little man snorted. "Sire? Would that be the bastard that did this  
to me? I never saw him after that night. There I was, minding my own  
business, and he bit me and left me for dead---but not before I gave  
him a good nibble back. All I know is that when I woke up I couldn't  
face the day, and that blood was the only food I craved, more's the  
pity, for I used to fancy a pint or two of ale now and again."  
  
"And the first thing you saw was a sheep," Nick guessed. "...which is  
why you're a carouche, and not a normal vampire," he added by way of  
explanation.  
  
"Aye, if you say so." Patrick eyed Nick warily and started edging  
away. "And it's the only thing I want now, so if you don't mind, I've  
my dinner to attend to..."  
  
"Not so fast, Patrick." Nick took a firm grip on the little man's  
sleeve. "No hunting on Mr. O'Malley's place. You've taken enough of  
his flock, so much that he hired me to catch the thief."  
  
"Well, you've caught him. You can go back to whatever a 'normal'  
vampire does, and leave me be. It'll be dawn in a few hours, these are  
the only sheep around, and I'll not go hungry."  
  
"Nonsense. Why not go to the next village, or the one past that?"  
  
Patrick said sarcastically, "Oh, aye, just run off there and back in  
one night? These demon legs run fast, laddy, but not that fast. Why,  
I'd be burnt to a crisp before I got back to my little cave."  
  
"So fly."  
  
Patrick burst out laughing. "I've grown sharp teeth, not wings," he  
exclaimed. "Fly! I think too much moonlight's getting to you, boy."  
  
In answer Nick rose and hovered in the air above the carouche's head.  
"Fly," he said firmly.  
  
The little man gawped in amazement. "God save Ireland!" he exclaimed.  
"How'd you do that?!?"  
  
Nick settled to the ground. "I think some lessons are in order."  
  
*****  
  
Nick took Nat's arm and escorted her down the dimly-lit street towards  
the museum. "Sorry I couldn't find a closer parking spot," he  
apologized.  
  
Nat patted his arm. "That's okay, I'm being squired by a policeman,  
and it's a nice night for a walk. So you ended up teaching this---what  
did you call him? A carouche?---how to be a proper vampire?"  
  
He nodded. "Well, a proper carouche. They're very rare. We spent the  
next week together, and I showed him the ropes, including how to fly.  
He'd never met another vampire in the ten years he'd been one and he  
knew almost nothing. At that, he was pretty well-adjusted. He claimed  
it was better than the life he had been leading as a tramp with no  
family."  
  
"And Farmer O'Malley? What did you tell him about his sheep thief?"  
  
"Oh, that I had caught him red-handed and given him a good thrashing,  
but then let him go. I implied he was someone important locally who  
could have made trouble for O'Malley if he insisted on pressing  
charges."  
  
"And the Shillelagh o'Doom?"  
  
Nick made a face. "I tried to give it back to him, but he insisted I  
keep it, claiming his honor demanded I be paid for my good services."  
He grinned. "It gave Lacroix something to think about when we met up  
again, and just to be annoying, I kept it."  
  
Nat laughed. "I just bet you did." She stopped at the foot of the  
museum steps. "Well, here we are. Do you have any fascinating stories  
to tell me about Monsieur Monet?"  
  
Nick smiled. "Oh, a few. But that's for later. Let's go look at some  
paintings."  
  
*****  
  
There was a faint scuffling noise from the alley that ran around the  
back of the museum. A barely-visible figure pounced on the source of  
the noise and came up with a plump, squeaking rat. "A proper carouche,  
'e says," the figure grumbled as he bit into the furry morsel. "Rare,  
'e says," he continued after finishing it off and dropping it daintily  
into a trash bin. "And 'e's a fangy-peeler! Now 'o's rare, iz wot Oy  
say!"  
  
Screed snorted derisively and headed back towards his usual haunts. He  
had enjoyed the Monet exhibit, especially since he had seen some of  
the works at the artist's home in Giverny all those years ago. "Now  
there were a noice bloke," he reminisced to himself, "Even for a  
Frenchy."  
  
And properly appreciative, too, after Screed had solved the mole  
problem the artist had had in that big garden of his. Too bad he was  
just painting flowers at the time, but for some reason artists never  
added rats to their still lifes.  
  
"Don't know wot they're missin'," Screed said aloud, and disappeared  
into the night.  
  
FINIS  
  
======================================  
Comments, questions, or attacks with pointed sticks  
may be sent to Nancy Kaminski at:  
nancykam@mediaone.net  
My apologies for not writing Screed-speak well. Only  
Libby can do that!  
======================================  
  



End file.
